Trouble with Supplies
by mara-anni
Summary: Bob is a long-suffering employee of the Supplies and Maintenance Department at the Daily Planet. Just how much of a headache do Lois and Clark cause him over the years? Humour, hopefully, and innuendo. In canon. CLois, naturally.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Just a bit of fun. Hopefully. A series of short ficlets, all from the POV of one of the Maintenance and Supplies guys at the Daily Planet, Bob. I made him up, btw, I don't recall any mention of any such character in the show itself. This entire fic was inspired by Bren Ren who asked how much trouble I thought Lois and Clark got into with the Supplies Department due to Clark's desk sweeping tendencies. ;)

This chapter is set during Crimson of S6.

**Chapter 1: Crimson Capers**

The elevator doors slid open, but before Bob could take a step out, he found himself with a face full of blue as something barrelled into him. He only had a moment to realise he was about to land on his ass, when he felt a steel grip on his arm and was pulled sharply back onto his feet. Bob considered himself a rather solid man and wasn't used to being knocked around, so when he'd regained his balance and managed to get a look at the brick wall he'd run into, he suddenly understood why Joe was standing in the hallway, snorting like a hyena in heat.

He scowled up at the towering man, who looked like he was only a few years out of high school, and noticed that while he'd nearly crumpled in a heap in the collision, this kid still had a grip on his girlfriend's hand. It pissed him off even more. "Hey! Watch where you're goin', kid."

But the over-grown teenager didn't spare Bob so much as a glance, instead, snaking his arm around his girlfriend's back and removing what little space there'd been between them. From the eyes that bulged out of Joe's head, Bob could imagine where that hand had come to rest. The lady in question, with her knee high boots and tiny skirt, didn't seem to mind and just trailed a hand up the broad blue chest, Bob had just come far too up-close-and-personal with.

"What are you kids doin' up here, anyway?" He demanded.

The grin the kid shot him was a little sinister and Bob found himself eyeing the distance between him and the door. But he needn't have worried about escaping.

"Three's a crowd, gramps." The iron grip returned and Bob found himself shoved bodily out of the elevator doors before they slid shut.

"Whoo," Joe laughed. "That's one lucky son-of-a…"

"The Daily Planet isn't some pay be the hour hotel, Joe."

"Jealous?"

Bob laughed. "Totally."

"Well, as much as I enjoyed that, better get back to work. We have to get this office cleared out by tomorrow."

Bob fell into step with Joe as they left the elevator and made their way to the end of the hall. "What happened to the reporter who used it?" he asked.

"Now that's a big mystery. He disappeared at about the same time as that gossip lady, Linda Lake. Just left the office one night and never came back. I've already started on the clean-up. He even left some of his personal stuff behind. Nice sport coat hanging on the coat rack if you're interested."

"No thanks, don't see myself needin' one of those in a hurry."

"Everything we need to keep and take down to Archives is on the desk, the rest can go… crap!"Joe had pushed open the doors and was staring at the floor around the desk.

Bob squeezed past him to take a look. Folders and papers were everywhere, only a few files left on the desk. "What the hell happened?"

"God damn it, it took us hours to sort this crap."

Bob moved further into the room, surveying the damage. The phone was sprawled a few feet away from the desk but seemed to be intact and undamaged. He couldn't see any damage to any of the other hardware. The desk seemed alright, though when he looked closely he saw scratch marks in the floor at the desk's legs, as if it had been pushed back a couple inches.

Bob shook his head. "For people that go around in starched shirts and ties, you'd think they'd be a little more..."

"Civilised?"

"That's one word for it." Bob shrugged and got back to business. He didn't share Joe's people-watching curiosity; although to look at Joe now, he'd say it was less curious and more furious. To Bob's way of thinking, he had a job to do - a job that kept this place running - and he needed to get on with it.

He bent over and picked up a desk lamp. It dangled in two precariously attached pieces as he held it up. "Somebody have a vendetta against office supplies?"

He dumped it on the desk and pulled the notepad out of his back pocket. "We'll need to requisition a new desk lamp before the new guy starts."

tbc

**A/N: **Reviews? Yes please! I'm not too proud to beg.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This chapter is set during the events of Instinct in S8. Soon after Clark's...amorous activities...with Maxima at the Daily Planet, but before the final scene with Lois in the barn. I strongly advise that you rewatch that scene, paying special attention to Clark's shirt and his shirt buttons before reading. ;) Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 2: Basic Instinct **

Bob leaned back comfortably against the kitchen bench, casually sipping on his morning coffee. He had a few extras things to see to today, so he'd come into work at the Planet early.

The swinging door of their break room burst open and in bustled one of the night cleaners, limping slightly as she made her way to the coffee pot.

"Mornin' Jean. You alright?"

"Morning Bob. Ugh, I tell ya, I've got a good mind to make a safety report this time."

"What happened?"

"Buttons! That's what happened. I was gettin' into the elevator and as if the damage that damn vacuum is doin' to my back isn't enough, I trip and nearly twist an ankle 'cause some moron has left his shirt buttons all over the elevator floor. I should ferret them out of the vacuum for evidence."

"Have you filled out an incident report?"

"Nah, it's not that bad. Just...I wonder what the heck goes on over there sometimes. Anyway, you've got your own problems out there this morning, I'll wager."

Jean's eyes twinkled with humour, tinged with a little satisfaction, Bob was sure. When the phone rang, she grinned widely.

He arrived on the scene of the carnage less than five minutes after the harried call from the bullpen, reporting a vandalism and destruction of property.

"Miss Wanda Stern?"

"Yes. Oh, you're from maintenance and supplies?"

"Yes, ma'am. Can you tell me what happened here? For the report."

She waved her hands at her empty desk. "You tell me! I just got here and this is what I found. What kind of security do we have here, anyway?"

Bob whipped out his notepad – "I only do supplies, ma'am." – and started jotting down the damage and the replacement supplies that would be needed. The paperwork was the reporter's problem; he couldn't see any damage to the desk itself. The lamp on the floor by his feet was shot to hell. He spied the phone on the floor on the other side of Miss Stern's desk...and the keyboard, and what was left of the mouse.

"Whoa, Wanda, what the hell?" Bob looked up from his notepad to find a hot young thing with legs to her armpits, scowling at the mess that had managed to land on the end of her desk, next to Stern's. She looked vaguely familiar.

"I don't know, Lois. I got in this morning and my entire desk was cleared, my stuff everywhere. God knows where my computer monitor is."

Bob was just thinking the same thing as he ducked his head under the desk to check for it.

"I think I found it." The reporter with the legs gripped the back of an office chair and spun it around. The monitor was sitting facedown, its ass in the air, on the seat of the chair. She picked it up and dumped it on the desk.

Bob checked it out, then scribbled _'replacement monitor' _in his notepad.

"Well, Miss Stern, we'll get your equipment replaced in no time. We have a good supply of everything you'll need."

"Hey, Wanda?" A tall man, with dark, ruffled hair and built like a mountain under the blue shirt he wore, tentatively surveyed the area as he approached the two women.

Bob felt a prickle of recognition with him too, but couldn't quite place his face. But then, Bob was the first to admit that he didn't pay much attention to reporters. They were more a nuisance to him than anything else.

"Oh…Hi, Clark." Bob had gone back to making notes but couldn't help noticing the breathless greeting of Miss Stern.

He looked up just in time to see her tuck her hair behind her ear and catch the reporter lady with the super-legs roll her eyes.

"I, err...I heard about...what happened...with your desk...err, sorry."

"Not your fault, Clark."

_Legs_ snorted loudly, making Bob raise a curious eyebrow as well as rethink his 'lady' appraisal. She squeezed in, between the big guy and Stern's desk, and dumped something else on there.

"You might want this back too," she said, shooting a smile at this Clark guy that was dripping with far too much honey to be genuine.

Bob added _'name plate' _to his list.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This chapter is a tag to S9's Charades. The important scene to remember before reading this, though, is the scene with Lois and Clark in the DP elevator. Though I'm sure no self respecting Clois fan could forget it. ;)

What inspired this was her line to Clark when the elevator doors opened: "Sometimes, I swear you have more than two hands."

**Chapter 3: Charades or Strip Poker?**

Bob sat down at the dining table in the staff break room. Cupping the steaming mug of coffee in his hands, he lounged back with his feet up on another chair and let out a contented sigh.

Joe had started his break a good five minutes ahead of Bob, and was sitting across from him, his face hidden by this morning's edition of the Planet.

"I heard Lois Lane and Clark Kent were fired today," Bob said, taking a tentative sip as his coffee cooled.

"Yeah, heard that. Saw the pictures too." Joe flipped the paper down, and pegged Bob with a grin.

Bob couldn't help returning it. "She called in for some packing boxes. Figured I'd take them over myself."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah…you know…figured it would be the right thing to do."

"Of course. So…?"

"Gotta say, that bowtie really suits her. Shame she wasn't wearing the bunny ears, though."

Joe made a choking sound into the herbal tea he perpetually drank – and Bob found just a little pansy of him…not that he'd ever say that out loud. Joe would kick his ass.

"A mighty shame, that." Joe folded up his paper and stood with a groan and audibly creaking knees. "I have a feeling things will be quieter around here without those two around."

"What makes you say that?"

Joe just smirked as he dropped his mug into the sink. "I've been at the Daily Planet for nearly twenty years. And the past three have been the most interesting, by far."

Bob didn't get a chance to ask what Joe meant before he shoved his way out the door, just as Jean walked in.

"Was that you two I heard gigglin' like girls?" She asked.

"It wasn't giggling. Men don't giggle."

"Sure. So what was so funny?"

"Lane and Kent got fired today."

Jean frowned and, hands on hips, scowled down at Bob. "What? Well… that's really not funny. That's people's livelihood you're talkin' about."

"From what we hear in the Inquisitor, Lane burst out of a giant cake in a bunny outfit, then slugged Kent."

Jean blinked for what Bob was sure was a full minute, before the grin stole across her face, though she tried to hold it back. "Yes, well…still it's really not funny." She snorted and coughed the laugh away. "Ahem. Anyway, look at this," she said, reaching into her pocket. "I found another button in the elevator." She held it up for Bob's inspection.

"Looks like a coat button this time. Is that red or pink?"

"I think it's cerise."

"What the hell kind of colour is cerise?"

"I don't know. I saw it on Martha Stewart." Jean grinned. "Should make a nice addition to the collection, though."

"What collection?"

"Me and some of the other cleaners have decided to keep the mysteriously lost buttons we've been finding around here lately."

Jean reached into the kitchen cupboard above her head and pulled out an old coffee jar. She shook the multi-coloured contents - buttons of various colours and shapes. Then popped in her newest acquisition: a big, silver edged _cerise_ disc.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **This chapter is set as an ep tag to S10's Isis. Hasn't had a beta, so any gross errors are all my fault and I apologise in advance. :o

**Chapter 4: Isis Is Where the Heart Is.**

Bob straightened after he'd shoved a tattered old archive box into place and checked his watch. Nearly eleven. He and Joe had been working steadily all morning. Bob looked around the room; one of many in the rabbit warren that was Archives. This room had definitely seen better days, and it was their job to see it restored to something more constructive then its current title of 'junk yard'. The table would definitely stay, as would the chairs. It already had a phone and a desk lamp. There were three old floor lamps that Bob was sure he could polish up and keep. Musty old archive boxes sat one atop the other, or were thrown on top of steel shelves. Piles of stacked file folders sat here and there. The shelves were crammed full with old concertina files and various other bits of discarded and unwanted paperwork that had long since been digitally rendered and weren't considered worthy of taking up valuable space as hard copy archives. There was a lot left to do, but they'd made good progress.

Pushed together in the centre of the room and toward the back was what they'd marked for discarding so far. They'd made a mound of the large clear bags full of shredded papers, waiting to be taken to recycling, and on top of those a few filled with the left over gold paper discs the Daily Planet had used as tickertape, when the Metropolis Sharks had won the Super Bowl last year. Around that, Bob and Joe had piled a few of the archive boxes full of various bits of papers and rubbish. But they were running out of floor room now and would have to toss this stuff before they could continue.

"Thinking what I'm thinking?" Joe asked, dropping another pile of papers on top of a box.

"Real men drink coffee?"

"Watch it," he replied, but smirked, already heading to the elevator. "I think a well-earned break...hey, you know, Jean said she baked brownies last night."

When Jean baked, she always baked too much and they were the lucky recipients. She would bring a batch in, leaving them in the break room for everyone to enjoy.

Bob's mouth watered just thinking about it. "Well we better get in there before there's none left."

* * *

><p>Bob thought perhaps he'd had one too many brownies. God bless Jean, he thought, but he wasn't sure how his stomach was going to cope with all the bending and lifting he had left to do.<p>

He spotted Joe maneuvering the mover cart through the street level lobby toward him, weaving his way around bustling news hounds, and hit the elevator call button.

The doors slid open with a ding. Bob started to take a step inside when he was treated with an eyeful of groping hands and entangled limbs. Clark Kent and Lois Lane were pressed into the corner of the elevator and Bob had no clue what to do about it. He was just considering coughing loudly when they suddenly broke apart like giggling teens, wide grins on their faces.

Kent cleared his throat sheepishly when he spotted Bob in the doorway, but Lane just smiled and waved. Kent gripped her hand and swept out of the elevator in a hurry.

"Miss Lane, Mr Kent."Joe nodded at them with a smile as they passed him and disappeared into the rushing crowds. "They looked happy."

Bob rolled his eyes. "No kiddin'"

He helped Joe wheel the cart into the elevator and promptly forgot about the reporters on the short ride back to the room they were working on, his thoughts on the tasks ahead. He whipped out his notepad and checked through it. They'd load up the cart with everything they'd stacked together so far and take that to recycling or the trash, as needed. Once that was done, they'd need to...

Bob's train of thought came to a screeching halt when the elevator doors opened. He stepped slowly out, Joe right behind him. A couple of archive boxes were upended, their contents spilling out, some of the bags of shredded paper had burst, gold discs lay scattered everywhere.

Sitting on the table was a first aid kit.

"Son of a…!"


End file.
